


our lives together are a work in progress

by chuchisushi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chuchisushi/pseuds/chuchisushi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altair is an alpha. Malik is an omega--as well as being the most stubborn creature Altair has ever had the misfortune of encountering.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a prompt on the Assassin's Creed Kinkmeme:
> 
> Alpha Altair is finding it strangely hard to fuck Omega Malik
> 
> For clarification, in this verse the Order takes both male and females, since they take everyone in the A/B/O spectrum; omegas and betas also don't go into heat until after they're bonded, but can still get pregnant if they have sex out of heat.
> 
> CURRENTLY HASNT EARNED ITS E RATING BUT IT'LL GET THERE

I.   
  
Omegas were not supposed to be Assassins.  
  
Well, rather, they were allowed in the Brotherhood, but omegas were not supposed to be  _good_  Assassins.  
  
Omegas were not supposed to be good Assassins, and they  _certainly_  were not supposed to be good enough to rival alphas, especially Altair Ibn-La'Ahad, who'd been rumored to have been born with a blade in hand, so fiercely did he fight--even if they were currently both Novices and facing each other across the cleared ground of a sparring ring, swords in hand and sizing each other up, Altair's hand tingling with the force of the blow that he'd just parried.   
  
Omegas were not supposed to be good Assassins; they weren't supposed to be good enough to rival alphas; and Altair's current opponent was all of that and more; Altair inhaled deeply where he stood, trying to mark the other Novice's scent, ingrain it into his memory:  _Here was someone to keep his eye on._  
  
His pause was taken as hesitation or surprise, and his opponent took the moment to call out a sharp taunt, "Has the great Altair become so addled by his fat cock that he loses the will to fight?", sharp, dark eyes staring at him, the point of his sword unwavering.  
  
Altair snarled instinctively, showing his teeth, and rose to the bait, flying back into battle.  
  
  
II.  
  
He found out the omega's name later: Malik, Malik Al-Sayf, an unbonded omega with a beta brother, skilled with a blade and even sharper with his tongue. Altair watched him from a distance, locked swords with him on occasion (that eventually became more than 'on occasion', as they found their fighting levels well-matched), and rose through the ranks of the Order, ghosting each other as though chasing each others' tails over rooftops.  
  
Altair and Malik reached an uneasy truce, bound in mutual respect for the other's abilities and their brotherhood in the Order, but wary of each other--horror stories were still told to the youth about alphas who had lost control, omegas who'd conceived child before earning their hidden blades, betas injured in the crossfire of heats--and did not see much of each other beyond their interactions in training and on missions. Masyaf took omegas, betas, and alphas all, trained them in the art of fighting, but kept them in separate quarters: there were public areas where all mingled, the inner courtyard where the omegas were housed, dormitories and quarters for betas, alphas, and bonded pairs. Neither saw much of the other until the Al-Sayf brothers and Altair were assigned to a mission in Jerusalem itself.


	2. Chapter 2

III.  
  
Soloman's Temple was a disaster.   
  
Altair refused to admit it, but the bitter taste of ash, blood, and defeat lay heavy in the back of his mouth, clogged his nose until it was all he could scent for the entire ride back: ash, blood, the taste of Templars, and the smell of Kadar and Malik, whom he believed dead.  
  
Malik disproving his assumption via his arrival back to Masyaf didn't settle his stomach any; in fact, it disturbed it more, seeing him arrive with one half of his white robes drenched red, his scent heavy with iron, pain, and the sour smell of fear. Something in Altair's chest had twisted at the sight, his instincts screaming: an omega was hurt, and his first desire was to protect, to nurture, to rend limb from limb the enemies that had laid hands upon Malik.   
  
He'd pushed the instincts that he typically followed so closely down--Malik was no typical omega, and had demonstrated in the past (by way of broken hands in the sparring rings, blackened eyes, bloodied noses, and sharp insults) how much he detested being treated as one of the fairer sex.  
  
(It didn't keep Altair from, after the Templar attack, his demotion to Novice, and Al Mualim's offer of redemption, scaling the wall outside of the room Malik had been housed in, keeping quiet vigil on the smallest of ledges just underneath the window day after day until the decision to remove the omega's now-rotting arm; Altair stayed through the amputation, attuned and agonized by every scream.)  
  
He left for Damascus that night.  
  
  
IV.  
  
The first thing Altair is struck by when he drops down into Jerusalem's Bureau is the smell of paper, ink, leather, medicine, and Malik; it's not enough to prepare him for the sight of the omega himself, standing behind the rafiq's desk, the fingers of his remaining hand tightening over his quill.  
  
Their exchange is... angry. To put it mildly. Their attempted discussion of news from the area culminates in Malik spitting out that he is no  _invalid_ , Alitair unable to find words that come out properly, and a thrown inkpot aimed at the former-Master's head.  
  
Altair chooses discretion over valor (who says that he's learned nothing) and flees to find more information on his own. Malik has given him a starting place, as well as a splattered rainfall of ebony ink across one arm and shoulder, and that's more than enough for now.  
  
Their second meeting goes little better; Altair exchanges information for a feather, Malik almost-audibly trying to resist jibes that do not pertain to the task at hand, attempting to remain businesslike, and offers him the typical amenities of the Bureau in a biting tone before promptly treating Altair as though he doesn't exist.  
  
Altair leaves after a short rest, unable to stand the bitter smell of stress in the place any longer, the faintest worm of guilt chewing at his chest for causing it.


	3. Chapter 3

V.  
  
After he's lost the guards, the tone of the bells fading, Altair waits for minutes longer, staring at the sky through bits of hay before moving, vacating the wagon and scaling walls to navigate across roofs to return to the Bureau.  
  
Malik calls him incompetent for alerting the guards, but takes his bloodied feather and offers him rest and food with the faintest thread of satisfaction in his scent.   
  
Altair considers it a vast improvement from the inkpot.

 

VI.  
  
Altair is gone by morning, and Malik wrinkles his nose as he kicks blankets and pillows apart to air in the sun, attempting to disappate the alpha's scent as quickly as possible before unlocking the lattice overhead.   
  
He checks his coffers, his supplies, what's been taken and what's needed, makes a list and scrawls a note to any of the Brotherhood that could arrive (despite the lattice that he will close after him), takes a basket, before stretching and scaling the wall, grabbing hold of the edge of the lattice and swinging himself upwards deftly. There are a few bricks within the walls that stand out just enough to be used as steps for the climb, and Malik hasn't let himself go soft in the time that he's been confined to the Bureau. (He hasn't dared let himself; he keeps his skills strong in case he needs to defend himself or defend the Brotherhood. His stubborn pride refuses to allow himself to be tucked away in safety as though he were something precious and fragile--he's as much an Assassin as anyone.)  
  
He checks the pigeon coops first, tucking away messages and missives within his robes before continuing to the market for more ink, tea, incense; he keeps his head down, slumps his shoulders, attempts to look as downtrodden and nervous as possible, though he rails against it.   
  
But there's guards who wouldn't think twice about harassing, beating, doing worse to a crippled omega, and Malik refuses to do anything to compromise the Brotherhood and the Creed.   
  
(Unlike that novice of an Assassin; Malik half-hopes he falls from a roof someday.)  
  
In the market, he looks like any other omega sent out on household errands, and he cultivates the image, pretends to be much less than he is, and makes his way back to the alley that contains the ladder back to the rooftop entrance without incident; with a surreptitious glance about him, he slips into the space between the buildings and scales the ladder, opens the lattice, and drops back in.  
  
There's a hidden entrance to the Bureau, as well as several rooms in the back (one of which serves as his personal space, another as an infirmary for brothers too injured to easily return to Masyaf), but Malik dislikes to use it; it's too easy to fall into softness like that, and if he doesn't climb, then he will lose the skill, the same way that he would lose his skill with a blade if he didn't fight.  
  
And Malik has always been a fighter, omega or no.


	4. Chapter 4

VII.  
  
Malik doesn't see Altair again for weeks; instead, the pigeons from the rafiqs and dais of the other cities track his progress for him. Each speaks of their impression, and Malik reads them at the beginning of each day, scowls at some, scoffs at others, and quietly contemplates one from Acre, stating that for once, bells did not ring across the city to herald an assassination by Altair.  
  
Malik brushes the thought that the prideful man was learning away, consigning the slips of paper to the burner on his desk, adding the scent of charred paper to the smoke in the room, before returning to the map spread across the surface of his desk. Altair will have to ride back to Masyaf for his next set of orders; it will be several days before Malik sees him again. He tells himself that that's good, that he doesn't want to see the damned novice, but can't shed the lingering curiosity that he feels--are the missives true? Is Altair truly learning?  
  
He shakes away his thoughts with a similar shake of his head, and looks up as a white-robed figure drops through the lattice, calling out a greeting; Malik inhales instinctively, identifying the man as an Assassin who'd come by for a feather several days before, and returns the hello, already reaching for the ledger that records successful kills.   
  
He'll worry about Altair later. There's work to be done now.

 

VIII.  
  
Their conversation this time is civil if nothing else; Altair doesn't test Malik's patience, and Malik doesn't pounce upon every opportunity to cast blame down upon the man's head. Malik has heard about his next target, yes-- Majd Addin has been making a nuisance of himself about the city, according to his informants, who've been scurrying about like mice, trying to keep their heads down.  
  
Malik chews the inside of his cheek as Altair leaves for the locations he's recommended. At least there'd been no inkpots wasted today--Altair had been brash, but not... intolerable. He'd even asked for his advice, an interesting development that he'd not been expecting.  
  
He catches himself woolgathering a second later, and shakes himself with a snarl; now is not (and never will be!) the time to speculate upon the exasperating Ibn-La'Ahad--if he does his job as any other Assassin would, then fantastic! Nothing more nor less was expected of him.


	5. Chapter 5

VIV.  
  
Altair had  _intended_  to return to the Bureau with nothing more than the information that he'd gained to give to Malik, but as he threads through the masses in the marketplace, the fragrant scent of dates arrests him, draws him back to a bustling fruit stall.  
  
He contemplates the fruit for a moment before giving in and buying a small bag, popping a few into his mouth before he even reaches a clear-enough alley to climb to the roofs; sweetness and juice fill his mouth, and he eats another three before he drops into the Bureau.  
  
"Safety and peace, brother."  
  
"Were it that the city were possessed of either. What news then, novice?" Then Malik pauses, eyes narrowing at the bag in Altair's hand.  
  
Altair swallows hastily, protesting: "I am  _not_  a novice!" and the look that Malik shoots back at him is as dry as the desert and just as merciless.   
  
Altair refuses to back down in acknowledgement of the point that's been scored, instead approaching the counter. Malik pulls out a ledger in response, careful to not smudge the lines of the map he'd been drawing before Altair's arrival, and writes within as he reports what information Altair tells him, the bag of dates relocated out of the way of both of them on the counter.  
  
"Do not allow your impulsiveness to cloud your judgement in this mission; a brother's life hangs in the balance. Al Mualim wishes for him to be saved, and saved he will be if my men have anything to say about it--just  _do not_  allow him to be killed!"  
  
Altair resists the urge to scoff, instead replying, "He will not; I will not give Majd the chance to steal his life."  
  
"One hopes so," Malik answers, voice dry once again. "Here. Take your feather and begone."  
  
Altair nods, then tilts his head toward the bag of dates, already stepping out of reach. "Eat those. It's been too long since your last meal, I can smell it, and they'll go to waste if you don't--I can hardly snack while on a mission, no?" He grins and deftly sidesteps the throwing knife that flies at him, scampering out and through the lattice before Malik has the chance to throw another; he stands behind the counter and fumes silently for a moment before stalking out to retrieve his blade, mentally cursing Altair. Thrice damned nosy alphas and their instinctive desire to care for his sex! The stupid man should tend to his own business first before meddling in his.  
  
He still manages to eat half the bag as he finishes his map before his mind catches up to his actions; he nearly throws what's left of the fruit at the next Assassin to come in, telling her to dispose of it in whatever manner she sees fit, before taking a break to prepare his own midday meal.

 

X.  
  
Altair's return is quiet, the other man evidently doing his best to not rouse Malik's temper once again; apparently there's some sense of self-preservation in his head, and he's realized that trying the Dai's patience after his display earlier would likely end with literal bloodshed. Recording Altair's kill and taking his bloodied feather, Malik's brusque offer of shelter and supplies, is the extent of their conversation, and Altair disappears afterwards through the lattice again, likely to cause more mischief on his own time before the sun sets.   
  
Malik smells the blood and tenses before he processes the footsteps coming closer, whips his head upright as additional scents come to him as the distance between what's bleeding and the Bureau closes (he hadn't heard bells for ages; there were some half an hour ago, but they'd stopped quickly), and his eyes widen as the person registers, the Dai bolting out from behind his counter to the lattice as a bruised and bloodied Altair drops down into shelter with a groan and thump.  
  
His legs buckle underneath him as he lands, sending him onto the floor, and the smell of iron is mixed with the markers for stress, exhilaration, satisfaction, pain, and Malik lays his hand on him before he really registers the action, attempting to soothe the spikes, before his mind catches up and he turns the action into examining Altair, trying to find his wounds.  
  
"What  _happened_ ," he snaps; the Assassin is bleeding from a gash on his upper arm, his temple, an arrow affixed in his side, which is the source of most of the blood, and Malik drags him closer to the fountain so he can start cleaning up the blood, mind already cataloging what he'll need, judging how serious the arrow wound is from the way Altair is clutching at it.  
  
"There was a girl--"  
  
"And what; did you get so addled by her scent that you lost basic reason?"  
  
Altair growls, actually  _growls_  at him, low and throaty and threatening, and Malik can't help the shiver and stiffening of his spine at it; he tosses a scowl back at him for doing so before fetching bandages and rags, needle and thread. "She was being harassed by guards, Malik; I couldn't leave her--even betas don't deserve that sort of treatment."  
  
Malik blinks, then blinks again, staring down at Altair for one surprised heartbeat as he processes the man's words; a beta? Only a beta, and a civilian at that? Why would Altair rescue a civilian that had nothing to do with his mission, be willing to risk injury for the sake of a stranger?  
  
He shakes his head and kneels instead, snaps, "Relax" at Altair, else removing the arrow would be more painful that it will be already, and gets to work, hand moving automatically even as his mind races.


	6. Chapter 6

XI.  
  
By the time Malik is done patching Altair up, night has fallen and two other Assassins are waiting to report on information from their respective missions; the Dai leaves Altair where he lies, deciding to not comment on the way the man is obviously clinging to consciousness in the wake of receding adrenaline and pain, and gestures both waiting into the inner room, where he records what they have to say.  
  
They disappear soon afterwards, citing a previous engagement and a need to return to Masyaf quickly, and leave via the lattice; Malik closes and locks it after them with a sigh of relief before turning his attention back to the lightly-dozing Altair.  
  
Then he shakes his head and goes to make a small dinner.  
  
Malik prods Altair awake with his foot, enough food for the both of them balanced on a tray in his hand, and Altair snaps awake with a snarl, lashing out; Malik skips back easily, expecting the response, and steps closer again once the alpha winces and settles back at the pull of the stitches in his side, glaring up at Malik balefully.  
  
"What."  
  
In response, Malik kicks a cushion to him and seats himself upon it, setting the tray down between them; he gestures at the bread, olive oil, watered wine, figs, upon it, and Altair grunts almost apologetically and reaches over.  
  
"No dates?"  
  
"Do not test your luck, idiot."  
  
Altair eats little and drinks even less, and gingerly rolls over to sleep afterwards; unfazed, Malik finishes his meal before standing and gathering the tray.  
  
"Stay for a few days," he orders, "You're in no condition to ride back to Masyaf like that."  
  
Altair's only response is to grunt, and Malik resists the childish urge to roll his eyes before retreating to his bedroom to sleep.

  
  
XII.  
  
It's good that Altair follows his advice for once and stays at the Bureau; he has a fever by noon of the following day, and spends his time in irritable, broken sleep with a dampened cloth draped over his face. The fever is not serious (Altair has had worse at Masyaf, in the course of training--and Malik has to bite back memories and snarls at thinking of the past, pushes it firmly out of his head to be dealt with later), but it leaves the alpha testy, filling the front room with the scent of it and sickness, which in turn makes (Malik) the brothers and sisters that visit twitchy. No-one wants to cross an alpha that is giving off such strong signals, and, as the sun inches past its apex, Malik gives up and decides to risk Altair's temper, storming over and getting his shoulder underneath the alpha's chest.  
  
Altair grunts in discomfort at the contact, then growls at Malik; he snarls back, which apparently startles Altair into a few moments of silence, during which the Dai says, "You're a nuisance even unconscious; I'm moving you into the back room."  
  
Altair finds his feet in response, and Malik takes it as agreement.  
  
He settles the alpha on one of the beds in a back room, helps Altair reachieve horizontal, checks his bandages, and goes back out into the front room for Altair's weapon belts and boots, which he brings back and dumps near the man; Malik touches him on the shoulder before he goes back outside, taking a moment to scent the air for undue stress.  
  
Nothing; if anything, the amount that's there is  _lower_  than what he would have expected. That suits the Dai just fine, and he leaves Altair to sleep with a sense of satisfaction.


	7. Chapter 7

XIII.  
  
Of course, the situation is a little different that night; Malik wakes up from his sleep at a solid  _thump_  that he hears even through the wall. Instinctively, he knows it's Altair, and he bolts out of bed and down the hall before he can think about it, pausing at the entrance to the infirmary as he assesses the situation.  
  
Altair has managed to roll out of the bed in his fever-sleep, dragging all the blankets off of the bed with him and curling up on the cool stone floor; bright, slightly-glazed gold eyes stare balefully up at him from the mass of cloth, and Malik resists the urge to curse.  
  
Instead, he goes to fetch water and comes back to the same sight.  
  
"Altair," he tries, and gets nothing for his effort but a growl in response, an alpha sound warning unknowns away; Malik scoffs at it, because Altair's current condition hardly matches up with the threat implied in the noise. He steps closer, and the growl increases in volume before cutting off abruptly; Altair shifts, twitching as a movement evidently aggravates his wounds, leaning closer to Malik.  
  
"Yes, it's me, you ass." Malik sighs, contemplates for a moment the futility of talking at Altair in the condition he's in, and steps closer instead, settling on the floor and holding out the cup of water he's holding towards him. "Drink."  
  
Altair stares at it for a moment, then turns his attention back to Malik; the Dai grits his teeth as the Assassin leans even closer, threatening to topple over, and grudgingly moves closer so Altair doesn't fall onto his face. The alpha emits a pleased sort of rumbling noise at that, moving closer as well, more suddenly than he had, and Malik has to focus on not spilling the water as Altair practically looms over him, before leaning heavily on him and burying his face firmly in the crook of his neck.  
  
Malik freezes. Resists the urge to bolt, because that  _would_  spill the water and dump Altair on his face and bruise his nose if nothing else (as appealing as the idea sounds), but the man's (more) out of his mind at the moment and Malik himself is possibly a bit half-asleep as well, because that's the only explanation he has for allowing Altair to  _stay there_.  
  
In fact, after a few heartbeats, all Malik can think to say is, "If you bite, I am punching you in the face, injuries or not. Drink the water," and Altair makes a grumbling noise of assent and annoyance, breath huffing out hot against the bare skin of Malik's neck and chest, before sitting up enough to take a few sips out of the cup and resettling himself where he'd been with an air of grumpiness.  
  
"You are such a  _child_ ," Malik hisses at him, prods him sharply in the ribs, which gets him another few sips of water and an annoyed growl, and keeps at it until the cup is empty. Stupid stubborn alphas, and Altair the most foolish and stubborn of them all.  
  
"I'm not staying," he says after he's set the cup aside, and in response Altair leans on him with all his weight, and flaps up one arm to drape around Malik's neck, and the omega takes a few moments to catalogue all the ways he could leave Altair in extreme pain in retaliation against his familiarity before giving the entire thing up as a bad job and lying down in the mess of blankets Altair's created.  
  
Altair presses against him, bare chest to bare chest, and snuffles contentedly at his neck, nosing at the curve of his ear and the corner of his jaw before settling; Malik reiterates his previous warning about physical violence in case of teeth, and Altair has the audacity to laugh at it before mumbling "thank you" to him and promptly dropping back off into sleep.  
  
Malik stays awake, turning the words over in his head until Altair's fever breaks, before closing his eyes as well.

 

XIV.  
  
Thankfully, he wakes before Altair does the following morning, both of them in much the same position they'd both fallen asleep in, and Malik groans underneath his breath and shoves Altair off of him to get up, wriggling out from underneath him.   
  
He  _smells_  like Altair now, both their scents mingling and smeared over him, and (despite how comforting it is to that part of his mind that's affected by hormone cycles, nesting, and all the instincts involved with omegas, to have that physical  _claim_  over him) he decides his first order of business this morning is a bath.  
  
It'll have to be cold, more of a scrubdown by the fountain than anything else, because Malik has slept in and has to open the lattice soon, but the weather today is warm enough that it will not be such a hardship.  
  
He strips out of his sleeping pants, sits on the edge of the fountain, runs a damp cloth over his skin, paying especial attention to his neck, the crease of his groin where legs meet abdomen, areas where the scent glands are located, washes himself down from head to toe before pouring more water over himself to rinse, listening to it sluice into the grated drain below his feet, before standing again.   
  
The loss of the alpha scent clinging to him kicks him in the gut like a blow, and Malik has to sit again on the fountain edge as he staggers, swallowing hard.  
  
He has never been marked by an alpha: first concerned with the care of his brother and training at Masyaf, then the mission, the loss of his arm, the loss of Kadar, and being shunted off to Jerusalem, tucked into the company of scholars by the virtue of the loss of the full measure of his fighting abilities, abilities that he'd rightfully  _earned_  despite his omega nature, and determined to be just as useful as he was now out of a sense of pride and spite, had occupied all his attention. He'd had no  _time_  for alphas or even betas, no inclination to be marked so, ignored the ebb and flux of his cycles with the same control that he'd used to master his body for combat, and--  
  
And--  
  
The memory of Altair as a heavy weight atop him, the huff of breath against his neck, skin against his, and their scents mingling with that of sweat, Altair's growls, the tone and depth, sends a shiver down Malik's spine, pools heat between his hips as he shifts where he sits, and with a sudden burst of mortification, he realizes he's getting  _wet_.   
  
Cursing underneath his breath, he resists the urge to lift and spread his legs, press into himself to chase some of the pleasure that an alpha's cock would give him, and instead picks up the cloth he'd used to wash himself, dipping it back into the cold water of the fountain and wiping himself down, attempting to think about anything else--cataloging old scrolls, mucking out the stables at Masyaf, dealing with guards at the marketplace--to calm his body.  
  
One long breath and then another, and Malik allows himself to relax, rubs his forehead with the back of his hand before standing.   
  
It's an unexpected obstacle, but one that he can overcome when compared to everything else he's done.


	8. Chapter 8

XV.  
  
Altair shuffles out into the inner room sometime in the middle of the morning with a blanket draped over his shoulders, peering blearily out at Malik where he stands behind the counter; Malik raises an eyebrow at him in response, and Altair continues to stare before smirking at him, which makes the omega blush even as he wonders why he's doing so. The fleeting thought, wondering if Altair can smell this morning, his small slip in control, crosses his mind, which does nothing for his blush.  
  
"What," Malik says, and Altair shrugs a shoulder, then shuffles closer, shifts the blanket, and leans into his space; Malik resists the urge to lean in the opposite direction, pushes at Altair's face instead, grumbles, "That's hardly an answer."  
  
"Huh. Thought I was dreaming," Altair responds. Malik feels the air of his answer on his fingers, and scowls.  
  
"That is  _also_  not an answer."  
  
Altair hums a single noise of affirmation, then replies, "Thank you for staying with me" as he ducks out of Malik's reach. "I will ride to Masyaf."  
  
"Now?"  
  
"As soon as possible." He pauses in the doorway, as though contemplating saying something else, before shaking his head and ducking back into the infirmary.  
  
Malik, left by the counter, is for once speechless.

  
  
XVI.  
  
He disappears through the lattice barely half an hour later, and Malik stares at his hand, fingers wrapped around the quill, for long minutes afterwards.   
  
He tells himself over and over that he was merely fulfilling his duty, that the offer of succor and treatment would have been extended to anyone of the Order, that he would have stayed up, cared for anyone who'd dropped, injured, into his Bureau.  
  
He tells himself this, and yet cannot believe it, knows with a sinking feeling that he has allowed Altair... liberties that he would not have extended to anyone else.  
  
Malik sighs and finishes the line that he was writing in this ledger, sets the quill aside, and runs his hand over his face.  
  
He hates Altair, for the foolishness and arrogance that killed his brother and cost him his arm, his future in the Order, but even that doesn't ring true anymore; he hates the man Altair  _had been_ , the Altair that would not listen to the advice of others, that wouldn't have saved an unimportant civilian beta female, who wouldn't have brought dates back to the Bureau for him on a whim, who wouldn't have  _thanked him_ for showing him kindness.  
  
Malik realizes with mild astonishment that the resentment that he thought he carried for Altair didn't run as deeply as he thought it had. Altair-as-he-had-been was no longer the Altair-of-now, the alpha he'd allowed close enough to touch, and it stunned the mind that these few months had been enough to change him so--unless he truly did wish to repent.  
  
The thought itself, of proud Altair repenting, makes Malik shake his head. It seems as though no matter what Altair does, his actions are enough to send his mind scrambling to follow, caught uncomfortably between what had been and what he was now.  
  
It's something that he'll have to think on later; Altair will not return to Jerusalem so soon.


End file.
